


Singing

by azriona



Series: Advent Calendar Drabbles 2013 [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar Drabble, Earworm, Established Relationship, M/M, OT3, Other, Singing, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:42:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s hell when a song gets stuck in your head.  It’s worse when it gets stuck in three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Singing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [catko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catko/gifts).



> The twentieth installment of this year’s Advent Calendar Drabbles. Because I am lazy, I’m titling the drabbles with the prompt. Today’s prompt is from catko, who requested singing in the universe of the Resurrected Lover. Since that universe doesn’t actually belong to me, I made this more of a general OT3 story.

It started that afternoon, when John received a text message saying only “Lion Enclosure, Zoo.” His phone beeped once to let him know the message had arrived, but as he was in the middle of an examination of a two-year-old with an ear infection, he didn’t pay much attention. 

The phone beeped four more times before the mother and child left, prescription clutched tightly in her hand. A few precious minutes before the next – and hopefully last – patient of the day. 

_Lion Enclosure, Zoo. SH_

_Absolutely will be dangerous, as the lion has now developed a taste for human flesh. SH_

Don’t believe him, he’s being sensationalistic. Greg

_I’m also right. SH_

_I’m going in. SH_

John stared at the texts. “Oh, God,” he said, fairly calmly for a man whose lover was perhaps going to climb into a lion enclosure where the lion liked to eat people as a mid-afternoon snack, and went off to find Sarah to ask for the rest of the afternoon off. 

* 

“Greg wouldn’t let me,” said Sherlock, sulking. 

“Since when has Greg not letting you actually stopped you from doing anything?” asked John. 

Sherlock didn’t answer, he just glared at the lion enclosure behind John, where the fine detectives of the Met were gathered in a worried huddle just outside the glass. Past them, inside the glass, was the lion. John could understand why Sherlock had deduced that the lion had eaten more than his fair share of zoo-provided frozen steaks, or whatever they fed him. If the ripped and blood-stained clothing that was scattered around the enclosure wasn’t enough of a clue, there was a distinct dark-red mess around the lion’s mouth and jaws. 

“Could be a prank,” said Greg, coming over to them. 

“Blood,” said Sherlock firmly. 

“You can’t know that.” 

“Blood.” 

“No one’s gone missing from the Zoo’s staff, no guests have reported someone falling or jumping in, and the camera footage—“ 

“Blood,” insisted Sherlock. 

“It could be food dye,” said Greg desperately. 

“Blood.” 

“Well,” sighed Greg. “You’ll have your chance; we finally convinced the zoo to knock the lion out so we can go in there and gather evidence. Including the lion.” 

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed. “Can I…?” 

“No,” said John. “Absolutely not. That is an extremely bad idea.” 

“Yes,” said Greg, and Sherlock bounded to his feet and sped past them to where there was already a zoo employee, carrying a rather large tranquilizer gun. 

“Have you lost your mind?” John asked Greg. “You’re going to let him examine a man-eating lion?” 

“Yeah, well, the lion will be sleeping,” said Greg, unable to look John in the eye all the same. “It’ll sleep through the night, says the staff.” 

John snorted, and stomped off after Sherlock, and wondered why he had to be the _sane_ one. 

* 

_wimoweh, wimoweh, wimoweh…_

John didn’t even realize he was humming. He was washing the dishes, same as he always did when Greg cooked, because it wasn’t fair for Greg to do it and Sherlock probably thought fairy liquid was what one got when one crushed a fairy. 

_wimoweh, wimoweh, wimoweh…_

Sherlock was probably sulking on the sofa at the moment. Greg was watching a bit of the news, hoping that the afternoon’s excitement would be left out. Small chance of that, John figured. It wasn’t every day that a bunch of uni students dressed twenty pounds of raw meat in discarded clothes and tossed it into the lion enclosure as a prank. 

The fact that both Greg and Sherlock were right was probably reason enough to reward them later on, if John were so inclined. The fact that they were both currently sulking about being right was enough to keep him in the kitchen, doing the washing up. 

_wimoweh, wimoweh, wimoweh…_

Greg turned off the telly and came into the kitchen. “Well, that was a near miss.” 

“Nothing?” 

“So far. Just as well, those kids were probably hoping to be featured on the news. Reporting it would just create copycats.” 

John snorted his agreement, and then thought about it. “I did stupid stuff in uni.” 

Greg turned on the kettle with a laugh. “Same here. Replaced the school orchestra’s instruments with kazoos once.” 

John snorted. “Nice. We rigged an animation system for the cadavers to sit up when the professor turned on the lights.” 

“Oh, that’s brilliant. We tried to dismantle the dean’s car, and reassemble it on the roof. Couldn’t figure how to put it back together, though, so we left it up there in pieces.” 

“Lack of follow through.” 

“Yeah, it’s been bothering me for years.” 

John chuckled, and shook his head. “When did we turn into old men?” 

John had a pretty good idea, and it was wrapped up in a blue dressing gown and sulking on the sofa in the next room. He suspected Greg knew it, too. 

“Himself still sulking about no one actually dying?” 

“Or asleep,” said Greg. “Do you want tea?” 

“Yeah, sure, nearly done here.” 

Greg started to mess about with the mugs. 

_wimoweh, wimoweh, wimoweh…_

“In the jungle, the mighty jungle…” 

John looked up from the last of the pots. Greg’s back was to him, but it was his voice, very clear. 

“…the lion sleeps tonight.” 

John snorted. “I’ve had that song in my head ever since this afternoon.” 

“I know, mate, you’ve been humming it.” 

“Have I?” 

Greg went to fetch the milk as the kettle clicked off. “In the jungle, the quiet jungle, the lion sleeps tonight.” 

John couldn’t help it. It was the way of songs stuck in one’s head, the natural course of action when one wanted the song to get out and stay out. 

He joined in. 

_Ah-weeeee-eeeee-eeee…._

He and Greg both dissolved into giggles and shushing, two grown-up schoolboys. 

“Shhh, we’ll wake him,” hissed Greg, and the two of them collapsed against each other. 

“I’m not sleeping,” called Sherlock from the outer room. “And you are both ridiculous.” 

John and Greg dissolved into giggles again. 

“And if you’re making tea…!” 

John straightened up, still grinning. “Yes, fine, we know.” He reached for a third mug. 

* 

Later, much later, in the deep dark of the bedroom, with limbs so tangled that John had lost track of what belonged to whom and whether or not he was right, center, or left…. 

_wimoweh, wimoweh, wimoweh…_

“Oh, God, not again,” groaned Greg from somewhere across the bed. 

“Wasn’t me,” said John, and the humming stopped. 

The room was quiet for a moment. 

“I hate you both,” said Sherlock sulkily. 

“No, you don’t,” said John, and kissed him.


End file.
